


Those Damn Socks

by timeandspaceandbackagain



Series: Adrenaline, Sweat, Grass and Sex [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, John loves Rugby Kit, M/M, Rimming, Rugby Socks, Sherlock is a bossy bottom, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 22:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeandspaceandbackagain/pseuds/timeandspaceandbackagain
Summary: John gets a taste of his own medicine.





	Those Damn Socks

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be Chapter 2 of the first work in this series, before I decided to make them a series rather than a chaptered work. It is definitely a sequel, and I would recommend you read Part 1 first to get the context, but you probably don't have to.  
Sorry for any confusion this causes, and for the delay in getting up the next part of the story - life is very busy at the moment!  
There will be further works in this series, as we haven't even made it to a rugby pitch yet, and I've some other rugby-shennanigans planned for the boys...

The following morning, Sherlock is lying draped across the sofa in a fresh set of pyjamas and a dressing gown, head in John’s lap, batting at the newspaper that John’s got spread across the arm of the sofa like an overgrown cat. John steadfastly ignores him and takes a determined drink of his tea, balancing a piece of toast between the thumb and index finger of his right hand and turning the page with his little finger. 

“Sherlock.” He says warningly. 

Sherlock says nothing, but clasps his hands together in his thinking pose, as close as he gets to acquiescence.  
John reads and drinks his tea for a few minutes before he ventures: “Have you eaten?”

“No”.

“Are you going to eat?” 

Sherlock pretends to think for a moment, before shrugging. “No”.

John just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Stop being so melodramatic John, I ate yesterday morning. I have to go to the morgue today and I don’t want my brainwork impaired. Plus you know I’ll eat some of your porridge tomorrow morning”. 

“Have some of the pasta I’m making later as well and you’ve got yourself a deal”. 

Sherlock’s lip quirks, amused. The statement makes no sense, as John isn’t offering him anything that would constitute it being a deal, apart from a cessation in his nagging. Although he supposes that is a fairly good trade, all things considered. John can be nothing short of belligerent when he wants to be. Besides, he likes doing what John wants, not that he would _ever_ let on to such a thing. 

“Fine.”

“Fine.” John tries to shift out from underneath Sherlock, who winds his long fingers into the front of John’s shirt, grumbling. John firmly untwines his fingers and dumps his head unceremoniously (but gently) on to the sofa. “I have to go to work Sherlock”.

“John. I was in an optimal state of comfort for thinking”. He flings a pale hand dramatically across his face with a sigh. “How can I be expected to work in these conditions-”. 

John ignores Sherlock’s histrionics as he laces up his shoes, before standing with a groan, back cracking as he stretches. 

“Christ Sherlock, between training and you last night I’m lucky I can move this morning.” He rubs his hands over his quads and glutes. Sherlock’s eyes remain closed as he lies there on his back, but he can’t stop the little smirk from creeping onto his face. John throws a pillow at him and he squawks.

“Stop looking so smug. Oh by the way, I forgot to mention yesterday seeing as someone so thoroughly distracted me when I walked in the door…” More smirking, and the slight raising of one dark eyebrow. John clears his throat. “Yes, well. Anyway, Jake said yesterday we’re going to have a ‘Bring a Mate’ training session next week. I just wondered if, you know, uh-“ He brings one hand up to clasp the back of his neck, unusually awkward. 

“Yes”. 

“What?” John drops his hand.

“Yes John, I’ll go to your training session”.

“Are you sure? I mean, I would have thought it would be beneath you, sport and all that. Not quite exciting enough.”

Sherlock sits up and swings his legs down to the floor, bare toes flexing. “On the contrary, I actually quite enjoy rugby. It features a combination of tactical skill and out-and-out aggression that you find in few other sports; the opportunities for besting people one-on-one whilst still working as part of a larger team are plentiful, and it also requires being able being able to read people. I’m surprised that you are surprised in fact”. He flips a hand elegantly.

John smiles. “Well. I mean, that’s exactly how I feel about it, although you’ve said it better than I could. But, if you like it so much, why don’t you play?” 

Sherlock flushes a little. 

“I did think about it, when you joined the club, but-“ He shrugs. “I thought you might like one aspect of your life… without me in it”. 

“Oh Sherlock…” John looks at him fondly, chuckling. “I appreciate the sentiment, really. You are an all-consuming whirlwind, who also happens to be better than me at everything, and sometimes I do need space to remind myself that there is a world outside our bubble. But, there is no part of my life I don’t want you in”. He shakes his head and adds softly: “Idiot”. 

Sherlock flushes harder, properly pink now. It’s quite charming. He clears his throat, not particularly good at the sentiment bit yet, even now. 

“Don’t be ridiculous John. You’re a much better shot than I am” he scoffs, in lieu of saying something romantic in return. John smiles, knowing that’s a close as he’ll get and not minding one bit. “Besides, I can’t really afford to get injured in my line of work, so I decided it was best not to take up playing properly. I’m also liable to keep ridiculous hours and get called off at a moment’s notice. I like rugby, but not as much as ‘The Work’. But I would… very much like to come to your training session with you”.

“Good. Well it’s next Tuesday so we’ll have to get you some boots and a gumshield over the weekend, but I’ve got plenty of kit upstairs, I’m sure some of it will fit – maybe have a rummage and see what you can find? If there’s nothing that suits we can pick some up. Anyway, got to shoot, see you later love”. John presses a swift kiss to Sherlock’s lips before grabbing his jacket and jogging down the stairs, leaving Sherlock deep in thought.

*****

“Evening” John calls out as he stumbles through the door of 221B. He dumps the bag of shopping on the side before flicking the kettle on, chucking a tea bag in a mug and going over to his armchair to collapse and wait for the water to boil. He tips his head back, eyes closed, allowing the tension of the working day to drain away. Sherlock isn’t in the lounge or kitchen but his coat is hanging up so he must be in. He very rarely goes anywhere without it.

“Sherlock?” 

“Down in a moment, John”.

Ah, so he’s in _his_ room, John realises. Probably looking for rugby kit. He wiggles further down into the cushions with a sigh and listens to the kettle boiling, allowing himself to doze a little.

*****

“John.”

John opens one eye blearily and looks over his shoulder to where Sherlock’s voice is coming from, by the door to the hall, and his mouth goes dry. He’s suddenly wide awake. 

Sherlock is standing just inside the doorway, dressed from head to toe in John’s old kit. He’s not posing – just standing, and he looks almost a little self-conscious. Nothing anyone else would pick up on, but John is attuned to the slight pinkening high on his cheekbones. 

“Will this do?”

John swallows slowly.

Sherlock is wearing one of John’s St Bart’s Medical School jerseys, the old-fashioned cotton style with a V-neck which exposes his long throat and a lovely amount of chest. It’s slightly loose on him - although his shoulders are broad he’s not as stocky as John (particularly John 10 years ago) and his waist is more tapered. He’s rolled the sleeves up to expose his forearms and somehow manages to make a faded old shirt look like a fashion statement. Fuck. John drags his gaze lower, to the shorts and oh _god_. Sherlock's long, lean thighs are being hugged tightly by a pair of navy lycra undershorts, and over the top are John’s old regiment shorts, heavy green cotton with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers badge on the left side. But the best thing about the shorts, both pairs, is that they are far, _far_ too short. John has never been so grateful to be shorter than Sherlock in his life. Whereas on John, the shorts come down to a couple of inches above the knee, on Sherlock at least half of his thighs are on display. John takes a moment to appreciate them – Sherlock is slender, but he still has excellent muscle definition, and a sparse covering of fine, dark hairs. John’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, forcing his eyes continue their downwards progression, and he barely contains a moan when he takes in the _pièce de résistance_. Sherlock has on a pair of navy and white striped knee socks, and instead of folding them as John would do he’s pulled them all the way up so they just come over his knees, and the result is that his legs look like they go on forever. He looks simultaneously strong and powerful, and yet innocent, almost _school-girlish_ with those socks, and completely and utterly fuckable. 

“John?” Sherlock is staring at him with one eyebrow raised in a question.

John clears his throat, but his voice still comes out slightly hoarse. 

“Jesus Christ”

He thinks he’s getting an inkling of why Sherlock can’t get enough of him on training nights. He pushes himself up out of his armchair and takes the few steps until he’s stood in front of Sherlock. He reaches out to grasp his waist with both hands and tugs him close.

“God, look at you. Your legs are a crime Sherlock”. He slips one hand up behind Sherlock’s head and draws him down into a kiss, which starts off slow and sweet, but when they pull back after some moments they are both panting none the less. Sherlock leans his forehead against John’s. 

“This is… acceptable to you then?” 

“Fuck yes it’s acceptable to me, however we’re going to have to get you some different shorts for Tuesday.”

Sherlock pulls back, affronted. “Why? These are perfectly functional.”

John looks skywards and mutters something under his breath. Silent plea for strength perhaps.

“Because Sherlock, I’m fairly certain it’s quite difficult to run around let alone concentrate with a raging hard-on.”

“Oh”. 

John slips a hand down to trail his fingers over the smooth, endless expanse of Sherlock’s thigh. “You have no idea what you look like do you?”

“And what’s that?” Sherlock breathes.

“Powerful” John leans up to mouth at Sherlock’s ear, curling his tongue round his earlobe. “Fuckable”, He pulls it between his teeth to nibble on it gently, before he releases it and brushes his lips over the whorl of his ear, whispering directly into it with hot, damp breath: 

“_Mine_”.

Sherlock whimpers, knees buckling. John catches him round the waist and take some of his body weight, whilst turning Sherlock’s head with his hand and capturing his mouth again. Their tongues tangle together, open-mouthed kisses, hot and wet.

“Turn around”. 

John presses at Sherlock’s left hip and spins him round, and he instinctively braces himself against the wall, back arching. John groans loudly, petting desperately at every part of Sherlock he can reach, rubbing his hands up and down his flanks. He runs both his hands down his back and cups his arse-cheeks, pushing up underneath the top shorts and running his hands over the silky lycra, slipping one hand down between Sherlock’s legs where he can feel the damp heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric. 

John sinks down on to his knees and as he does so he hooks his hands into the top of the first pair of shorts, dragging them down over Sherlock’s bum and letting them fall to the floor to pool around his ankles. He runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s endless thighs, from his hot skin up to where he’s covered by the smooth, skin-tight undershorts, which leave nothing to the imagination. John can see the crease of Sherlock’s arse where the shorts are clinging to him and he leans in and presses his face to it, just nuzzling in. Sherlock can’t do anything but pant loudly and cling onto the wall. John bites one cheek softly and he jumps, moaning quietly. 

“_John_”.

John exhales deliberately, blowing his hot breath directly over where Sherlock is most sensitive, and he knows he can feel it through his shorts. Finally, he takes hold of the waistband and peels off the undershorts, dragging them halfway down Sherlock’s thighs where they stay due to the elastic, trapping Sherlock’s legs close together. John’s mouth is watering, and he reaches a hand down to adjust his aching cock, which he’d been mostly unaware of until now but he is suddenly, painfully hard, and he’s still in his work clothes for fuck’s sake. 

“John, _please_”.

John says nothing, just runs his hands over Sherlock’s bare arse before spreading him open slowly and licking a hot, wet stripe from bottom to top. Sherlock makes a sound like “uhhk” and John knows he’s got his fist shoved in his mouth to stop himself crying out, and the thought of it sets John on fire. He gathers as much saliva into his mouth as possible and licks the same stripe again, and again, not focusing on any particular area, just getting Sherlock wet everywhere, feeling his hole fluttering under his tongue but not allowing himself to focus there just yet. He can feel his end-of-the-day stubble brushing against the delicate skin of Sherlock’s arse, and he rubs his face back and forth, roughing him up just a little and Sherlock gasps with delight. A few more passes with his tongue and he can feel him rocking back against him, pushing his arse against his face almost unconsciously, and he’s moaning, low and continuous. 

John can’t wait any longer. He licks from Sherlock’s perineum upwards, following the same path but this time when he gets to his hole he points his tongue and just pushes _in_ and he feels him give a little, just enough for John to feel the softness of him just inside, and he can’t stop himself moaning. He switches to firm, fast licks directly over his hole, and Sherlock cries out in ecstasy. The feeling of him is exquisite and obscene and John can’t get enough. Sherlock is quivering from head to toe and has brought one hand back, first to tangle in John’s hair, and then to grab his own arse, to hold himself further open for John. John can see his thighs twitching where they’re held in place by the shorts and he knows he wants nothing more than to spread his legs properly, but something about the way he is constrained is insanely hot. Now that Sherlock is holding himself on one side, John takes advantage of his free hand and lets it run down Sherlock’s left leg, starting at the top and working all the way down until he meets the socks and _fuck_. John has no idea why the feeling of it is so arousing but it sends a bolt of lust straight to his gut and he moans against Sherlock’s arse, running his hand up and down and round Sherlock’s ankle as he continues to lick him steadily. He knows that he could make Sherlock come like this, potentially without even touching him, but he suddenly knows what he wants, no, _needs_, more than anything. 

He reluctantly places a final kiss directly over Sherlock’s hole, feeling him shudder, and sits back on his heels. 

“You better have a bloody good reason for stopping John Watson” Sherlock growls, voice muffled, and John looks up to see his face is completely buried in the crook of his elbow where he’s collapsed against the wall.

He looks over his shoulder as John gets to his feet, and he looks wrecked. His hair is slightly frizzy with sweat around his forehead, he’s bright red and his bottom lip is swollen where he’s been chewing on it desperately. John feels a tiny bit guilty, but it passes as he leans in to whisper in Sherlock’s ear: 

“I know you could come like this love, but that’s not what I want tonight. Do you know what I want?” He licks the back of Sherlock’s neck above the collar of the shirt, tasting salt, and bites down gently.

“What – _ohh_ – what do you want?” Sherlock pants. 

“I want to see you naked, apart from these socks. I want to feel them brushing against my skin.” John breathes. “Specifically, I want to feel them rubbing against my cheek when I’ve got you on your back with your legs over my shoulders and your knees up by your ears”. 

“Oh fuck, John-“ Sherlock wriggles around in John’s embrace desperately ‘til he’s facing him and captures his mouth in a frantic kiss, large hands on either side of John’s face.

“Fuck, _yes_, take me to bed John”. 

He grabs John’s hand and tries to drag him towards the bedroom, forgetting the shorts holding his legs together and he very nearly stumbles and falls over. John bursts out laughing whilst Sherlock glares daggers at him. He strips the shorts off and chucks them at John’s head who dodges them, still giggling, and turns and saunters towards the bedroom. As he goes John reaches out and gives his delightful arse a slap, and Sherlock turns his head and gives him a filthy smirk over his shoulder.

“Get in there and get that shirt off” John breathes. “I’ll be two minutes”.

*****

The sight that greets John when he enters the bedroom a few minutes later, having hastily shoved the shopping into the fridge, nearly makes him come on the spot. 

Sherlock is lying spread out on the bed, naked apart from the long striped socks, dark curls fanned out on the pillow. His right leg is stretched out on the bed, his left hand holding his bent left leg, spreading himself wide open. And with the middle finger of his right hand, he’s steadily fingering himself. His eyes are closed, brows ever so slightly furrowed in concentration, the little line between them appearing that John loves so much, and his mouth is hanging open. When he hears John enter the room he opens his eyes and stares at him hungrily, pupils big and black. He’s panting with effort and arousal.

“What took you so long?”

John can only stare for a few seconds before he gives himself a little shake and starts frantically stripping his clothes off. He’s still wearing his badge from the surgery and that joins the growing pile in the corner as he hops on one foot, pulling off shoes and socks and trousers.

Sherlock ensures he maintains eye-contact as he pulls his finger out, and pushes back in with his index and middle fingers together. John swears loudly and rips his shirt off over his head, only bothering with the top couple of buttons. Sherlock throws his head back and moans as he fucks himself – the angle is hard but his long fingers mean he can get in to the second knuckle and he thrusts them in and out, scissoring them and working himself open, already loose from the ministrations of John’s tongue. 

John practically throws himself onto the bed and kisses Sherlock desperately.

“Fuck, Sherlock, you’re going to kill me” He moans between kisses. He grabs the lube from next to Sherlock’s hip and moves to coat his own fingers with it but Sherlock shakes his head, pulling his fingers out and grabbing the bottle from John. 

“John for god’s sake I’m ready, you had me last night and I’ve done enough, please just _fuck me already_.” He pours lube onto his already slick right hand and grabs for John’s cock.

“Christ Sherlock, I’ve never known as bossy a bottom as you” John pants as Sherlock coats his cock in a manner that’s perfunctory at best. 

“You love it.” 

“Damn right I do, lucky for you. Don’t know what other poor bastard would put up with you. Now give me those incredible legs of yours.”

John hoists both Sherlock’s legs onto his shoulders and presses forwards, nearly bending him in half, as the head of his cock slips just inside the loosened rim of Sherlock’s arsehole almost by accident. 

Sherlock moans and grasps at his own legs, and John thrusts his entire length home in a single push. 

“Oh, fuck!” Sherlock throws his head back on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. 

John begins to fuck him with hard, long strokes which push him back and forth on the bed, head moving up and down on the pillow. Sherlock’s knees are up by his collarbones and his calves are on John’s shoulders, and as he thrusts John turns his head to brush his cheek against the socks, first one side and then the other, and he groans delightedly. 

“Fucking.. hell.. Sherlock..” John can barely speak he’s so turned on, managing to just squeeze a word out on every exhale “You.. look.. incredible”

Sherlock just stares at John open mouthed as he pounds him, mouth open in a perfect “O”, little gasps of pleasure dropping out every so often, the sensations overwhelming. The position means John is fucking him deep, deeper than usual, hitting his prostate on nearly every stroke and Sherlock can already feel his orgasm coiling in his belly, his balls; even his toes are tingling. 

John grasps Sherlock’s thighs as he pistons his powerful hips, and Sherlock runs his hands reverently over his forearms before gripping his hands tightly. John turns his head to the side and bites down gently on the inside of Sherlock’s knee, the sock slightly damp with his sweat and he hears Sherlock’s breath catch. He looks up to see Sherlock gazing at him with a desperate look in his eyes.

“_John_”

It’s the urgent tone Sherlock uses when he’s going to come imminently, and John realises that he’s going to come completely untouched. The thought sends a swooping sensation through his stomach and he needs to see it happen. He thrusts just a little harder and clutches at Sherlock’s thighs.

“Yes, Sherlock, you gorgeous thing, come on-"

Sherlock’s orgasm hits him like a train and he throws his head back and wails, toes curling in his socks behind John’s head. His cock, completely untouched, spurts out long ropes of come and he’s folded in such a way that they land on his long pale throat and his own open mouth.

John knows that image will be burned into his memory until the day he dies. With a final surge of energy, he briefly leans down until he can reach Sherlock’s face, compressing him just a tiny bit further, and licks the detective’s come off his own lips. The taste of Sherlock’s release, and the thought of it, sends him hurtling into his own orgasm. Struck with a sudden urge, he pulls out just as he starts to come, Sherlock’s left leg slipping from his shoulder. He still clings to his right leg, pressing his socked calf to his cheek, and with his other hand he fists himself through his orgasm, coming all over Sherlock’s stomach and chest, groaning softly.

“Fuck, Sherlock, so beautiful… So beautiful”

He somehow collapses to the side without crushing Sherlock, and they lie together in the afterglow, panting hard. After a few minutes John finds Sherlock’s hand between them and tangles their fingers together, giving them a brief squeeze before moving to get off the bed. Sherlock grips his hand tight. 

“Where are you going?” He still sounds slightly out of breath.

“To get us something to clean up with. Sherlock, you are absolutely covered in come. I mean, you look incredible” John reaches a hand down and sweeps a finger through the come on Sherlock’s throat, before lifting it to his mouth and sucking, eyelashes fluttering. Sherlock’s breath catches and his eyes darken. “But that is going to start feeling really uncomfortable very soon. Besides, if I don’t get up now I’ll never move again”.

“Hmm…” Sherlock releases John’s hand and drags his own finger through the come on his stomach and licks it off, tongue swirling obscenely. He grins at John cheekily. 

“You’re going to be the death of me Sherlock Holmes”. John shakes his head with amusement and gets off the bed with a groan. “Plus, we had a deal remember? I’m making pasta, and you’re going to eat some.”

Sherlock stretches out luxuriously and crosses one ankle over the other, somehow managing to look imperious whilst covered from navel to chin in drying come, wearing nothing but a pair of old rugby socks.

“Any chance of you delivering it to me here in bed?”

John throws a pillow at his head.


End file.
